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PICTURES BURNED 
INTO MY MEMORY 



BY 

CHARLES W. '^HITEHAIR 

Author of "Out There" 



THE 

SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. 
Akron, Ohio 






Copyright 1918 

by 

SHE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. 



AUG 15 1918 

©aA503129 



PICTURES BURNED 
INTO MY MEMORY 



PICTURES BURNED 
INTO MY MEMORY 




VERY man who has been on 
the battle lines of the great 
war has seen things which are 
burned into his memory. Neither time 
nor distance will permit them to grow 
dim. Some of them are sad and terrible 
pictures, others inspiring and uplifting. 
But none of them would he banish if he 
could. They have shown him the great- 
ness and undreamed-of fineness which 
just common, every-day men are capa- 
ble of acquiring. Those who have gone 
into the great training camps and re- 



PICTURES BURNED 



serve trenches can little dream of the 
great heights to which men rise in the 
stress and strain of battle. Even dur- 
ing the monotony of the ordinary days 
at the front, one cannot come to truly 
understand the spirit of the men. It 
is only when the news spreads up and 
down the line that the great push is 
pending, that the men begin to lose 
their commonplaceness, and take on 
that indescribable spirit that makes one 
think only of unconquered kings. There 
are no better words to describe them 
than those of John Masefield when he 
wrote of the troops at Gallipoli : 

"They went like kings in a pageant to 
the imminent death." 



INTO MY MEMORY 



We have watched them pour into the 
great training camps of England and 
Scotland, laughing and singing, always 
hiding the pangs of homesickness under 
a cloak of cheerfulness. Then we have 
gone with them into the great base 
camps where it is drill, drill, drill, and 
the great battle line seems to fade in 
the distance. We have followed them 
into the far flung desert camps of the 
Libyan Desert and the Palestine Fron- 
tier. But in spite of terrible heat and 
sand storms and burning thirst, they 
are still sticking it out, never dreaming 
that the heroic hovers about them all. 
But these memories grow dim when we 
see them in the dead hours of night 



PICTURES BURNED 



shoulder to shoulder march forth from 
their base camp out into the night to- 
ward the sound of the faint but ever- 
increasing roar of the great guns, which 
foretell of the front. It is here we 
get the first real glimpse into their 
hearts. No man can follow them up 
to the front and really come to know 
them, and come back a pessimist about 
human nature. 

In September, 1917, 1 was at the front 
near Ypres. It was the day before the 
great push and the roads to the front 
were choked with the tens of thousands 
of men "going in.'' They were not talk- 
ing, or singing, or whistling. I heard 
no band except one that was playing an 



INTO MY MEMORY 



old hymn of the Church. All around 
were the silent and determined men. 
About them was the turmoil of that 
incredible traffic which precedes the big 
push, the rumble and roar of motor 
lorries, of endless streams of wagons, 
the thunder of the great guns, and the 
terrific sound of the bursting shells. 
But the human silence was almost un- 
broken, in that long line of marching 
men. By the thousands they passed, — 
men with faces rigid and white, con- 
scious of what was before them. I was 
constantly reminded of Christ in the 
Garden of Gethsemane. They did not 
want to die; life was sweet. Youth 
dreams of tomorrow. In their hearts 



PICTURES BURNED 



they were saying: "If it be possible, let 
this cup pass from me." 

And yet if they had been given their 
choice, I do not believe a single boy 
would have turned his back on that in- 
ferno. Home letters had been written. 
So far as they could, they had put their 
houses in order. They knew they might 
not come back, yet they went up like 
kings. 

Across the pictures burned into my 
memory there is written literally in let- 
ters of blood the word sacrifice. Sacri- 
fice more pure and holy than our modern 
life has ever dreamed of. A sacrifice 
which knows no personal return, and 
is not made alone through love of coun- 



INTO MY MEMORY 



try, but through devotion to the most 
sacred and righteous things of life. 
Heroism is no longer the exceptional 
thing among men. It is the every-day 
life of all. However, it is not a question 
of how much; but have I done my 
utmost. 

The lad who goes over the top and 
falls back into the trench, no more to 
answer the bugle call, is as much a hero 
and has as truly done his part as the 
boy who leads the gallant charge across 
No Man's Land and wins the Victoria 
Cross. Yet I would rather pity the man 
who went among them and tried to tell 
them they were heroes. A few times, 
I have heard some speakers refer to 



PICTURES BURNED 



them in such a way, and as I glanced 
around I have seen the smile and the sly- 
wink. 

The entire life might be summed up 
as a life of sacrificial giving. The spirit 
of the men who have made the greatest 
sacrifice is truly wonderful. I recall 
one young friend, a Canadian captain, a 
graduate of Queen's University, who 
went out to France among the first 
Canadian troops. Before many days, 
he found himself at the front. He was 
stationed with his company on Kemmel 
Hill. One night as he stood on duty, 
looking over the parapet into No Man's 
Land, a star shell burst overhead, and 
he said, "There was burned into my 



INTO MY MEMORY 



memory the great Ypres salient, the 
German lines in front — the dreadful 
picture of No Man's Land covered with 
barb wire fences, with wreckage not 
only of material things but human sac- 
rifice as well. Then darkness! Days 
afterward back in the hospital the news 
was broken to me that I would never see 
again. My eyes were gone; a German 
sniper had gotten me." 

After months of painful work, he 
was taught to live a new life. One can 
only imagine his thoughts during those 
long days in the hospital and school 
where he was learning to live a new and 
different life. He must have thought a 
good many times of the life ahead. How 



PICTURES BURNED 



soon the public forgets ! How many of 
us have seen in our community some old 
soldier crippled and blind, selling shoe 
laces on the street corner, earning 
barely enough to live on. We have for- 
gotten that he made his sacrifice for us 
during the days of '61. 

My young Canadian friend returned 
to Toronto and found a position as a 
stenographer in a big business concern 
— ^not because they wished to do him a 
favor, but because of his ability as a 
stenographer, which he had attained 
after many hard months of persistent 
effort and work. 

Although out of the war, he is to-day 
teaching to all those with whom he 



INTO MY MEMORY 



comes in touch that it is truly more 
blessed to give than to receive. Never 
have I met a more cheerful man. He 
will not permit you to sympathize with 
him. As I heard him remark to a friend 
who was speaking about his glass eyes 
looking so natural, "You know I have 
one big advantage over you. I can 
change my eyes to match the color of 
my necktie V^ Not only has he made his 
sacrifice, but he has made it with a will- 
ing and humble heart. 

I have watched the wounded stream- 
ing back down the path of the walking 
wounded. It was then I again came to 
realize that sacrifice brings forth that 
which is finest and best. In spite of 



PICTURES BURNED 



wounded and broken bodies, their souls 
seem somehow or other to soar above 
the material things and take on that 
which we speak of as immortality. For 
not only were they coming back with 
uncomplaining lips, but all of them 
were trying to be cheerful and helpful 
to one another in spite of torturous 
pain. I saw one man coming back 
whose trousers had been torn away. 
He was caked with mud and blood and 
his features were almost unrecogniz- 
able. He did not walk; he staggered 
from side to side. Sometimes he almost 
fell, but on his back he carried his com- 
rade, his pal, who could not walk him- 
self. I looked at them and the tears 



INTO MY MEMORY 



came to my eyes — as they would come 
to the eyes of any man who watches the 
walking wounded. But these two— no 
tears from them. They looked at me and 
tried to smile. 

Over and over again I have seen a 
British soldier, badly wounded himself, 
take the cup of tea, the cigarette given 
him by the Y. M. C. A. secretary outside 
the dressing station, and give it to a 
wounded German. When the war is 
over and the German prisoners go home 
and tell the truth about their treatment 
at the hands of the British, that story 
must open the eyes of their nation, for 
it is a wonderful story of compassion 
and kindness. 



PICTURES BURNED 



We talk of Christianity. But there 
at the front, with all the horrors of war, 
we come again and again upon the real 
thing in Christianity. 

We also talk of democracy. There is 
no democracy on earth like that of the 
trenches. It is true fellowship there. 
Social barriers do not exist among the 
men who live that life. When a com- 
pany goes over the top. the young offi- 
cer is the first man out of the trench. 
It is the officer who is always working 
for the comfort of his men, looking 
after their health, trying to get them a 
better billet. When the wounded come 
back, the officers take their turn with 
the rest. 



INTO MY MEMORY 



One of our secretaries saw a wounded 
British colonel sitting out in front of a 
dressing station. He asked why he 
didn't go in and have his wounds at- 
tended to. 

"Oh," he said, "it isn't my turn yet." 

Some time later the secretary came 
along again. Still the colonel sat out- 
side waiting. The secretary knew that 
not only all the men who had been there 
before had been attended to, but also 
that other men had arrived and been 
treated. When he spoke to the officer, 
however, he got the same reply: "Oh, 
it isn't my turn yet!" 

That is the spirit of the British army, 
and it is the same of the French. Their 



PICTURES BURNED 



officers are like big brothers or fathers 
to the men. It is the same with our own 
army. And when this war is over there 
is going to be more loyalty, more broth- 
erly kindness brought back into every- 
day life than the world has ever known. 
No longer will the talk of the brother- 
hood of man be merely talk. It will be- 
come a great reality of life. 

As for the courage of these men, it 
is sometimes so great that it almost ap- 
pears foolish. 

After the Gallipoli campaign the An- 
zac troops were very largely moved to 
Egypt. Everyone will recall the superb 
and terrible campaign of the Darda- 
nelles. One would think that the men 



INTO MY MEMORY 



who had lived through that hell would 
have been glad of the comparatively 
peaceful time they were having in 
Egypt. But not they! They soon were 
fed up with it and wanted to get back 
where they could see active duty. 

There was one youth, an Australian. 
He was a country lad, used to freedom, 
unused to discipline. He stowed away 
on a troop ship, hoping to get over to 
France to fight, but he was discovered 
after the ship sailed, and he was re- 
turned to Egypt. Technically he was a 
deserter. His motive, of course, did not 
excuse his act. He was court-martialed 
and sentenced. While he was under 
guard in the desert camp the Turks at- 



PICTURES BURNED 



tacked. Every man was needed to re- 
pel them. He was left without a guard. 
He had no arms, of course. He had no 
right to leave the place where he was. 
But he did. He broke his arrest and 
went out and began bringing in the 
wounded under shell fire. As he was 
carrying in the fifteenth man, he was 
killed by a stray bullet. The colonel told 
the story and said he had been recom- 
mended for the Distinguished Conduct 
Medal. When asked how about the 
court-martial, the colonel naively re- 
plied: 'We have lost the papers." 

Here at home we pity those men for 
those wounds, but to them their wounds 
are their badges of honor. There are 



INTO MY MEMORY 



two things they always want to show 
you: the home pictures, and their scars. 
Again they are like the Christ, because 
in their bodies they carry the marks of 
love and sacrifice for humanity. 

They probably would laugh at you if 
you put it that way — ^though I am not 
sure they would. They have truly of- 
fered their lives in order that those 
back home may have the more abun- 
dant life. There are no words to de- 
scribe the spirit of these men. After 
you have been with them, you form a 
whole new set of ideas about human na- 
ture. God knows you try to make over 
your own self to bring it nearer to what 
they are. One of the greatest privileges 



PICTURES BURNED 



that ever could come to any man or 
woman, no matter how mighty or how 
great, is the privilege of serving these 
men who are offering their bodies as a 
living sacrifice for our own Country, 
Home and God. 

One should not forget the stretcher 
bearers. In that little world of brave 
men over there, the bravest of all I 
sometimes think are the stretcher bear- 
ers. No man can live a life of daily 
compassion — a compassion that goes to 
the ultimate limit of sacrificing life it- 
self — and come back from it unchanged. 
In this connection one marvels at the 
untiring devotion and service and cour- 
age of the surgeons and nurses. They 



INTO MY MEMORY 



seem to have caught the spirit of the 
men. They live their lives in the con- 
stant presence of human suffering. 

One cannot understand how any man 
or woman can come into touch with the 
reality of the front and not have every 
fibre of his or her soul changed. 

There are two things you will always 
find in the pockets of the boys at the 
front: photographs of the home folks 
and their letters. The pictures, often 
with a small Testament, are always in 
their breast pockets over the heart. I 
think they sometimes are put there as a 
kind of charm to ward off bullets. Any- 
way, that's where they always are. And 
the look in a man's face when he shows 



PICTURES BURNED 



you the picture of his mother, his wife, 
his children, and you say — as you al- 
ways do— that they are beautiful, will 
bring tears to your own eyes. 

Those packages of letters! They 
carry them around for months, and 
read them over and over, until the 
creases are so worn the sheets will 
hardly hold together. 

In the army camps it makes no differ- 
ence whether a boy comes from a great 
millionaire home or the most humble 
of homes. All are on the same level. 
But it makes a tremendous lot of differ- 
ence whether his life is being enriched 
by a constant stream of letters from 
home, or whether the folks at home are 



INTO MY MEMORY 



considering themselves too busy to 
write him more than an occasional let- 
ter. You can send your boy no greater 
treasure than an abundant number of 
home letters chock-full of cheerfulness 
and home news. In spite of the dis- 
tance, the home ties are becoming 
stronger. 

It is indeed curious how the men who 
truly go into battle like kings in the 
pageant, who fight, when they must, like 
savages, become again, underneath it 
all, like the boys they were when they 
were little chaps, to whom their mother 
was the most wonderful being in all the 
world. The old, simple, human feeling 
comes to the surface again. Men have 



PICTURES BURNED 



learned that in the last analysis these 
are the only things that really count. 
Men out there are truly thinking of 
Eternity as a reality. 

Loneliness, pain, death are ever pres- 
ent. They dwarf all other things by 
comparison, and loneliness is not the 
least of them. After watching them 
under shell fire, noticing how uncon- 
cerned and calmly they carry on, I have 
come to feel that to a certain extent 
they become reconciled to the shells and 
the mud, and the vermin, and the rats. 
But they never grow used to the long- 
ing for human love and companionship. 
From the trenches of France they are 
going to bring back a new appreciation 



INTO MY MEMORY 



of home. For what have they not suf- 
fered? 

Practically all the soldiers become fa- 
talists about death. You see men die 
through some incredible chance. You 
see them escape by a miracle. Gradu- 
ally you come to believe, as Tommy puts 
it, "When a shell comes over with your 
name on it, you will get yours." In the 
meantime, "Why worry? You never 
know your luck." That's the way they 
put it. 

One of the strangest experiences I 
have ever had was going into a musical 
show the boys were putting on in a Y. 
M. C. A. hut just a few miles from 
Fritz's line. The place was packed, 



PICTURES BURNED 



every seat being taken. Every inch of 
standing room was crowded, and the 
rafters were hidden by rows of dan- 
gling feet. The faces were a study. I 
never saw such eagerness, such absorp- 
tion, and such enjoyment. And all the 
time overhead I heard the whining 
shells and roar of guns outside. But 
the boys took no more notice of it than 
a New York audience would of a faint 
murmur from the streets outside a 
theater. 

If it were not for the abundant 
amount of good humor, they all seem to 
have one feeling that surely all of them 
would break down with the strain. Of 
course they reserve the right to grum- 



INTO MY MEMORY 



ble. "Grousing" is what Tommy calls 
it. He grumbles and grouses to his 
heart's content when there is nothing 
serious the matter; but when he comes 
face to face with the great reality, such 
as suffering and dying, he meets it with 
a smile. There is more brave smiling in 
those pitiful lines of the walking 
wounded on their way to a dressing 
station than in any Easter "church pa- 
rade" that ever strolled up Fifth Ave- 
nue. If every man and woman in the 
United States could see those smiles, 
there would be no more complaining 
about the heatless, meatless and wheat- 
less days back here. There, smiles are 
rather difficult, rather grotesque, for 



PICTURES BURNED 



the faces are stiff with mud, and blood, 
and are drawn with pain. But there 
they are ! The suffering lips are dumb 
— no murmuring or complaining, but 
instead they are trying to smile. 

It is not to be wondered at that the 
people at home don't understand the 
boys out there. They hear about their 
swearing and the murderous fighting, 
and they think that their sons have been 
brutalized by war. In a way they have 
been. You can't live in that hell and 
keep up the surface refinements of 
drawing-rooms and '^bank parlors." 
What have men got to do with "polish" 
over there ? I have told how they come 
in from battle with their clothes ripped 



INTO MY MEMORY 



and torn until they are almost naked. 
It is the same way with the spirit, which 
is the actual man. All the frills and the 
veneer are stripped from him and you 
get down to the bare soul. The lan- 
guage he uses, many of the things he 
does, are merely the rags and tatters 
of the old covering of that spirit. They 
are not pretty, but neither do they hide 
his true self as his old ways did. And 
the splendid thing about it all is this: 
through those ugly tatters you see him 
so much finer and truer and more heroic 
than you ever dreamed he was. 

I was in a French hospital once which 
was an institution for the training of 
the permanent wounded; a place where 



PICTURES BURNED 



men who had lost an arm, or a leg, or 
both were to be taught occupations 
which would make them self-support- 
ing. This was the opening day. A man 
was singing with a voice of such beauty 
that I asked who he was, and found that 
he had been in the Grand Opera in 
Paris. After a while he began singing 
the "Marseillaise." I heard a noise be- 
hind me, and I turned to see every man 
there getting to his feet or to his 
crutches, if he had only one leg. One by 
one they pulled themselves up to atten- 
tion, holding themselves there, tears 
streaming down their cheeks until the 
song was over. 
Sometimes when I have seen an audi- 



INTO MY MEMORY 



ence in this country rise more or less 
casually for the playing of the "Star 
Spangled Banner," with some of them 
putting on their wraps in order to get 
ready to leave the minute the meeting 
was over, I have thought of that other 
audience in France and I have wished 
that I could place them side by side for 
the American people to see, that they 
might realize that only through su- 
preme sacrifice can come supreme love 
of country. 

In the light of the colossal sacrifices 
over seas, what can I do back here? 
Rightly can such a question be asked. 
There is no going to sleep back here 
with the sound of the roaring guns in 



PICTURES BURNED 



our ears, as there is in the thousands of 
homes out in France and Flanders. Out 
there — is not the fact of the awful price 
of war ever present? Hospitals are 
everywhere. Wounded come back in 
trains and ambulances, and there is the 
never-ceasing sound of marching 
troops. But in spite of distance, the 
war is coming home to us back here. 

Some time ago I was sitting on a rail- 
road train, in one of the far western 
states. Toward the middle of the day 
we slowed down to a little country sta- 
tion for water. As I knew we would 
stop for five or ten minutes, I jumped 
off the train as we pulled into the sta- 
tion, expecting to get some exercise on 



INTO MY MEMORY 



the station platform. Scarcely had I 
stepped onto the platform when I saw 
a sight that held me until the conductor 
called, "All aboard r 

It was a young lad who was going oflf 
to camp. The father and mother were 
telling him good-bye. Time sped on, 
and they stood looking into one an- 
other's face. The time for words had 
passed, for had not the mother arisen 
long before daylight that day in order 
to prepare for John the best breakfast 
her loving hands could serve? Had she 
not gone to his room long before day- 
light, there to stand by his side and 
dream over once again all the dreams of 
his future? Now all was changed by 



PICTURES BURNED 



the hands of the war. Only the mother 
heart will ever know all that must have 
passed through her mind as she stood 
and then knelt by his side. 

But when at last she called him, all 
traces of that battle which she had 
fought out at his bedside had been 
forced from her face. Instead, she 
urged him to eat this and the other 
thing, keeping cheerful while both he 
and the father tried to talk about this 
and that subject pertaining to the farm, 
all of them trying to hide from the 
others the fact that they were not eat- 
ing. At last the time to go to the sta- 
tion had arrived. They drove off along 
the long country roads to the railroad 



INTO MY MEMORY 



station. With heavy hearts they waited 
for those last few moments. 

As I stood there watching this scene, 
I truly felt I was on holy ground. As 
the bell began to ring, the old father 
took the boy's hand and, looking him 
in the eyes, he said, "Good-bye, John, 
and God bless you T' 

But John could no longer restrain 
himself and he threw his arms around 
his father's neck. The old mother 
looked long and earnestly into her son's 
face, seeming to burn into her heart the 
last picture of her boy. I turned and 
got onto the train with the same feeling 
that I have had as I have watched the 
long line of men going into the trenches 



PICTURES BURNED 



before the big push. Here was real 
sacrifice. 

John came into the coach and as the 
seat next to me was vacant, he sat down. 
For a long time we rode in silence. He 
finally turned, and I think more to him- 
self than to me, he said, "You know it is 
not that I don't want to go, but I feel I 
must go. But you see it is mighty hard 
to leave mother and dad. Dad and I 
talked it over. He did not want me to 
ask for exemption and I did not want 
to, either. We all felt that somebody 
had to go, and did not see any big 
enough reason for me not to go." 

He had truly heard his country's call. 
No longer was the war more than three 



INTO MY MEMORY 



thousand miles away over land and sea, 
but it had come into the heart of that 
little country home. 

It is time that we squarely face the 
issue that is here. It is no more the war 
of the boy at the front than it is the war 
of every man, woman and child back 
here who boasts of being an American. 

Patriotism is not measured to-day in 
words, but in action. Any man who 
goes about talking of how he would love 
to go out to France to fight the Hun and 
proceeds to do just as little as he can to 
help his country back here, is deceiv- 
ing no one but himself. If he means 
what he says, his action will tell the 
story. Not only will he give and give 



PICTURES BURNED 



again to Y. M. C. A., Red Cross and 
other war agencies, but he will look 
upon the purchase of a Liberty Bond as 
a sacred duty. Talk of security and in- 
terest will cease. In reality, the man 
who hoards his money and refuses to 
loan it to the Government because he 
can get a higher rate of interest some- 
where else, is not only a slacker, but he 
is a traitor. 

Many of us can learn much from the 
old Syrian shoemaker in one of the 
southern cities. He came into the of- 
fice of the War Savings Chairman and 
laid on the desk an old dirty paper sack 
containing all the money he possessed. 

"I want a thousand-dollar War Sav- 



INTO MY MEMORY 



ings Bond for my wife and each of my 
five children," he said. "This is all the 
money I have in the world, but I am 
glad to loan it to my country. Besides, 
they will pay good interest." 

Then he revealed his true spirit when 
he added: "It is all I have, but if my 
country wants my money and they 
never pay me back a cent of interest or 
never return my money, it is all right ; 
it's my country." 

He had heard his country's call. His 
was a true American heart. 

"By their works ye shall know them." 
There is no neutral ground to-day. We 
are for America or we are against her. 
The only way that we can show our loy- 



PICTURES BURNED 



alty is by constructive action. Our pa- 
triotism is not measured by quantity, 
but rather by quality. One admires the 
millionaire who leaves his office and 
goes to Washington to work for his 
Government at a dollar a year. But he 
is not to be compared with the widow 
mother who sends her only son to war 
and then takes in washings so that she 
can buy Liberty Bonds and give to Y. 
M. C. A. and Red Cross. 

It is not enough that ours is a united 
nation ; there should be in the heart of 
every individual the feeling of per- 
sonal responsibility. Every school child 
should be taught that when it gives up 
candy, chewing gum, movies and other 



INTO MY MEMORY 



pleasures in order that it may buy a 
twenty-five cent Thrift Stamp, it is as 
truly a patriot and is backing the boys 
over seas, as is the man who buys a mil- 
lion dollars' worth of Liberty Bonds. 

At the same time we must come to 
realize that a traitor back here is just 
as bad as a traitor out there. Any man 
who is furnishing inferior supplies and 
ammunition to the Government in or- 
der to graft is truly betraying his coun- 
try. Any labor leader who, for mere 
profits to himself and his organization, 
calls a strike and holds up shipbuilding 
or other war preparations, is just as 
much betraying his country as is the 
boy in the front line who throws down 



PICTURES BURNED 



his gun and refuses to go over the 
top. 

Preachers and professors who are 
teaching pro-German propaganda or 
pacifism in church or class-room are in- 
deed enemies of the Country. The time 
has now come in our great national 
crisis when any man, be he the head of a 
great industry, a labor leader, a 
preacher — no matter who — if he is a 
traitor to his country, is entitled to 
what a traitor gets over there : a stone 
wall, in front of a firing squad. 

In order to win the war — and we 
must and have to win this war — many 
will have to lay down their lives. Many 
mothers will have to give their sons; 



INTO MY MEMORY 



women will have to give up husbands 
and fathers, but all, regardless of race, 
color or parentage, must come forward 
and lay on the altar of their Country 
their all. Out of the conflict will come 
a bigger and better America than we 
have ever dreamed of before. A 
greater nation of character and honor 
will have been purchased through sac- 
rifice and death. 

But with it all, none of us back here 
can compare our sacrifice, our self- 
denial, the things we are giving up — a 
lump of sugar in the morning cup of 
coffee, an hour from bridge, money, 
with the sacrifice over there; for men 
are giving up themselves, their bodies 



PICTURES BURNED 



— everything but their souls. Those 
they are not giving up — ^but finding. 
There is no man or woman in America 
to-day who is too high or too good to 
black the boots of those boys out there 
on the battle front teaching the world 
the meaning of sacrifice and love. 



A THIN VOLUME 

By J. R. Perkins 

It's a wonderful story of today; so 
real, so inspiring, the book cannot be 
dropped until the story is finished. 

It's a book for every red-blooded 
man — a book he will pass on and on 
indefinitely, leaving always behind that 
punch — that awakening— that yearn- 
ing to do for country and friends — that 
feeling of satisfaction which is real 
happiness. 

Board binding, net $ .50 

Leather binding, boxed, net. . 1.00 

Postpaid by 

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. 
AKRON, OHIO 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: jyj^ ^QQl 

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